Buried Deep
by soaring-smiles
Summary: "We get lost, Rose Tyler," he says, and takes her hand. [TenRose]


**Edited for teen standards (explicit version on lj) This isn't fluff, people. It might be Paris, but there are ****_issues. _**

**Because sometimes, he's just not a good person.**

* * *

_I know the truth_

_you never wanted to tell me:_

_that when I say forever, I am_

_grasping at stars that slip _

_from my fingers and shatter_

_on the concrete _

_and that even you_

_can't sew the constellations _

_back_

_together _

* * *

He likes Paris, really, likes how the weather is nearly as dismal as London, but more _magic_ somehow. As if the rain pouring down is enchanting rather than dreary. Grey takes on a different hue, thoughtful instead of dull, sending everything into sharp relief, the statues, buildings, street lamps.

And he likes the Seine that twines itself around the city, the bridges and the Metro that pulses underground. He even likes the way the doors don't automatically open on the trains.

So he takes her, as an apology trip, even though he doesn't do these things, doesn't play at being the contrite boyfriend.

But he likes Paris, and Rose-things are better with her. A hand to hold, an ear to breathe things into, histories to be told to her. And the way she hangs on it, the words streaming out of his mouth, god, he loves that.

_he loves especially that even when she's falling apart on the inside, his touch still sends shocks down her spine, still makes her want him even more_

The clouds are gathering, threatening rain. She looks appropriately Parisian, wrapped in a long coat, stockings and a brightly coloured dress. Tiny heels clack on the cobblestones as he places a hand on the small of her back. He feels the muscle and bone beneath the fabric, the way it shifts when she walks.

_he thinks of shifting flesh and late nights, then, of hearing her through walls and fantasizing about what she's fantasizing about, whatever it is that makes her breath hitch and shake on the last syllable of his name_

"Where are we?" she wonders quietly, not quite ready to joke with him yet. He'd guess Mickey, or Reinette maybe, but he isn't a psychoanalyst. Besides, it's him and her, their breath hanging in the air and the whole city brimming beneath their feet, tangled beauty and possibilities.

The hand on her back becomes an arm around her waist as he tugs her into his side. Normally she'd giggle but normally she's not mad or upset or cross. She lets his fingers creep over her though, and his lips brush the crown of her head.

_her hair is soft and two shades too yellow, not pale enough and her skin too pink, her eyes too brown_

"Montmartre," he hums, making it sound like a song. "Bit of a dodgy district back then, in the day. Now though-"

"It's beautiful," she says, stealing the words on his tongue.

It is, actually, a mess of whirling colours and cafes, cheap shit and history all tossed in together. Cemeteries and churches, con artists trying to scam them and peep shows promising a look when the sun dims. Sacre Coeur is behind them, graceful and proud, hawkers yelling out to them, a couple making out on the bench. He tightens his grip on her.

"Now," he continues, "we can do the tourist thing. Trample down the stairs and have a wander round the church, visit Place du Tertre, buy those little multi-coloured Eiffel Towers, get screwed over. Admittedly, it has its values..._but_-"

"We don't do tourist," she says wryly. "Right. So now what?"

He feels a slow manic grin claim his face.

"We get lost, Rose Tyler," he says, and takes her hand.

_maybe it's his imagination but she is too stiff, looking away at the church and he feels the rain that's about to come, the storm that's about to break over them_

* * *

They make it down the steps, shoes slipping on the wet ground and her hand getting wet when she runs it down the black rail. The TARDIS has kept everything in French by his request, partly so she can absorb the whole city, partly so he has an excuse to whisper translations to her. She shivers.

_she always does, ever since he had big ears and a jacket and a conscience telling him what he was doing to this girl was wrong wrong wrong, but now he doesn't care_

There are sex shops, bistros, tall thin buildings looming over the street, interspersed with pretty green trees. She sounds out the street name on her tongue, ruins it, and he laughs at her. Says it again, too fast for her, just to show off.

_her eyes follow his tongue, wide and soft, angry but he sees the love underneath, the promise that whatever he'll do she'll be there and forgiving him_

"We could go to Versailles," she suggests coldly when he teases her about her lack of sophistication. And his hearts break a little and that was uncalled for but then this is Paris and she is staring at him, ice in her eyes.

_what was it like, he asks himself, waiting for him, knowing he was with another woman-and in his very best moments he hates it, what happened to them_

"I'll buy you a sandwich," he says, running from his issues like they'll disappear when he looks back. The rain starts, drifting down lightly onto them.

She doesn't take his hand.

* * *

For some reason, feet aching and soaked, they end up on a tourist bus accidentally. It's not his fault he insists, just because he was the one who tugged on her sleeve.

So they sit on the top deck in the pelting rain, looking at all the people who don't have a magic blue box to run away in.

_he can't tell if she's pitying them or envying them, and it scares him that she might not want to stay_

* * *

Notre Dame makes her quiet, stunned a little despite the crowds. He knows the feeling, something deep in your bones. A reverence and holiness, forcing you to believe in something even if it's just for a little while, just to share in it.

_he already has his faith_

He watches people light candles and watches her walk around and look at the saints, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if to hold all the pieces together. He wonders if he broke her.

He wonders if he wanted to.

* * *

"The air's _alive_," she proclaims. She's drunk on the city, on macaroons and buskers and the huge twining tower in the distance. He's seen it all before, the statues and gilt-edged stone, wrought iron gates and metal turning green.

_he's kissed strangers and not-so-strangers, stumbled along the pavement drunk and ended up shagging some woman in the half dark-but Rose doesn't need to know that_

He's seeing it now through her eyes, freshly, and it's intoxicating. _She's_ intoxicating, so in awe of everything, wide eyed and breathless, fingers trailing over plaques, table surfaces, bricks, like the feeling will rub off on her and lodge in her heart.

_he does the same to her_

He buys her a pink beret for a laugh, doesn't expect she'll wear it. She does though, despite the mildly condescending looks tossed her way.

"Do you forgive me?" he asks, leaning casually against the bridge. Water rushes below him, sky matching river.

_he pretends he isn't interested in her answer, but is fairly sure his white knuckles give it away_

"Nothing to forgive," she replies stiffly, biting the skin on her thumb. And oh, she's too bad a liar, it's written on her face. He lost Mickey, he swanned off and made her wait.

_if she was smart, she'd hate him_

The most awful parts of him are glad, happy to have shown her the reality. No happy endings with him. Snatches of it, yes, but soon she'll realize, wise up and leave him alone and old.

But he wants make his mark, as awful as that is. He wants to make her remember him.

He wants.

* * *

They end up back in Montmartre for dinner, passing dozens of places to eat and she rejects each one, dragging them through smoke-choked streets, up a hill and past the red light of the Moulin Rouge until they find a place she likes.

She could have had anything; he would have taken her anywhere she wanted, but it's this cheap, green walled place she likes. The food comes on a black mat instead of a plate, the steak thick and small, caked with pepper and salt.

The creme brûlée leaves sugar on her mouth, traces on her chin and fingers. He licks his lips unconsciously.

_she'd feel so good around him, so good kissing and he wants to bruise her, just a little_

They don't stay long.

* * *

There are lights shining on the pavement, cold wind chasing them, biting at his neck and raising goosebumps on her arms. A woman is on her knees, facing a man in an alley; he turns Rose's head and tucks it into his shoulder.

_he's not entirely sure why he doesn't want her to see that; the things he has her to do him in his head are far filithier_

The stars are so bright for so noisy a city, burning into the sky and he points at one and tells her about it and how she'll adore it there. But she's shivering and they are inside the TARDIS soon, staring at the console and wondering what to do next.

"You're a bastard," she says eventually. He nods.

"I suspected as much," he muses and then either he's swept her up or she's seized him by his collar and they're kissing. He fists his hands in her hair, nips her lower lip and knows this has been too long in coming.

* * *

After, after he carries her to the nearest bedroom-not his not hers, oh no-after he's done and panting, her breath ragged in his ears and right then, there, is a bite of remorse.

_she relaxes against him but he still holds her the same, as if he could make her merge into him if his fingertips hurt her enough_

"Sorry," he murmurs, but he's not sure for what, not even sure if he means it after all.

_he does, just for all the wrong reasons_


End file.
